


Pillow

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Flashfic Challenge, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 00:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Prompts: Consume, pillow, gun. A second flashfic challenge.





	Pillow

**Author's Note:**

> So, I did the previous heat, but this is the one I signed up for. And while I swore that meant I was done, the prompts were really good and the image of Jack wanking and biting his pillow was REALLY REALLY good, so you guys get stuck with this nonsense too.

The return of sexual desire surprises him, mostly because it makes him realise how very long it had been consumed by work and trauma and an unhappy marriage. It's not even any one thing--he could understand if it had come on the heels of seeing Phryne Fisher (mostly) naked, or in the face of her ruthless flirtations. She is, he has learnt in their short acquaintance, remarkably persistent. Instead it is little niggling moments that infringe upon his once solitary evenings--the hair at the nape of her neck as she leans over to investigate, the open gestures as she invites him for a drink or a game of draughts, the way she handles that blasted gun in dangerous situations. 

Sometimes, and this is particularly galling, she even finds her way into his dreams. She is as at home there as she is everywhere else, sharp words and soft lips and an ever-shifting presence he has no hope of ever catching. But in his dreams he finds he wants to; wants to kiss her and uncover freckles on her porcelain skin and bury himself so deep inside her that she gasps his name.

He wakes up hard those nights, throbbing and wanting; he resists at first, because he is married and she is untouchable and it is _wrong_ , but his sense of honour finds itself remarkably pliable on this matter. 

It takes very little--a hand on his cock, a movement, the memory of her perfume--and he loses himself in the fantasy. Pursues pleasure for pleasure's sake, toes curling and neck straining and the burning in his gut tight and hot and promising, moves his hand faster, imagines that it is her. Feels the bellow in his chest threatening to burst forth; he turns and buries his face in his pillow, biting against the heavy down to stifle the sound. It's a shout and a groan and hot spurts of release against his naked skin, and a heavy panting as he realises what he has done.

It has been a long time, longer still that it has felt like anything other than duty. Some part of him thinks he should feel guilty--it is ungentlemanly, unbecoming, counter to every moral he holds dear. But there is another part that lounges in contentment, ready for the next time he dreams. He sleeps well.


End file.
